


Miasma

by Kaijuscientists



Series: Fictober 2020 [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asphyxiation, Asthma, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Chemical Pneumonia, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, vague demonic items
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaijuscientists/pseuds/Kaijuscientists
Summary: A demonic item in Aziraphale's shop releases an dangerous vapor.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Fictober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949386
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	Miasma

**Author's Note:**

> 13\. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT   
> Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

Aziraphale takes a box of donated books into his back room, a kind soul had dropped them off this morning while he was reorganizing the whole front area of his shop. He would go through them later, just to be sure that there was nothing of value, then the rest would serve as decoy books, ones he could put out and sell without consequence. 

Once the box is safely deposited in the back, he goes back out front, and sets about moving around most of his books. It was one of the ways that he kept any would-be customers from finding any books they may like to purchase, and more importantly, it keeps anyone from coming back to find a book later. 

As he works, his nose starts to burn, just a little bit, as if he needs to sneeze. Which honestly isn’t that unusual, as he does keep the level of dust in his shop high. Lots of customers are immediately put off by it, or have their allergies aggravated. 

He stops, for a moment, reaching for his handkerchief, just in case, but the feeling passes. But only for a minute, when he’s overtaken by a sneeze so suddenly, he’s forced to sneeze into his elbow.

“Oh dear.” he mumbles, staring forlornly at his sleeve. His nose is already tickling again, as he pulls his handkerchief out and sneezes several times rapid fire. 

He sniffles, blowing his nose forcefully, but it doesn’t really bring him any relief.

“I think it’s time for a break.” He says to himself. Wandering into the back of the shop, deciding to make himself a cup of tea, perhaps have a snack. 

As he makes his tea, he unconsciously rubs at his chest, an uncomfortable tightness setting around his lungs. 

“Must be coming down with something.” He thinks to himself. He goes into his backroom, and sits down. Now that he’s stopped moving, he’s suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion. He’s slightly alarmed at how quickly these symptoms have overcome him.

It’s very unusual.

He feels so congested, his lungs feel almost heavy, for lack of a better term. Like something is sitting on his chest. He tries to take a deep breath, intending to cough and clear his airway, but it gets caught in his chest, producing an alarming wheeze.

He snaps his fingers, using a miracle to clear his lungs of congestion and it helps a little, but three clear breaths later, he’s right back where he was.

Something is wrong. 

Aziraphale stands, suddenly feeling light headed, the room spinning around him for a moment. He sways and has to lean back on his chair until it passes. When he’s stable he goes as quickly as he can to the phone, breaths labored and wheezing. He dials Crowley, one hand braces on the desk to try and keep himself standing, his legs shaking with the effort. 

“Anthony Crowley.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale wheezes, his voice taking on a rough edge, his throat burning.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, panic curling in his belly at how he sounds. He’s intimately familiar with an Aziraphale in distress. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know” He inhales, a thick wheeze that turns into a cough halfway. His legs give out in that moment too, and he collapses to his knees on the floor “can’t breathe well.” 

“Can you get outside?” Crowley suggests, already getting ready to leave. “Maybe that will help.

“M’not sure…. I can get up…” Aziraphale gasps, leaning against the leg of the desk, the receiver slipping from his hands.

“Hold on, angel, I'll be there in a tick.” Crowley snaps his fingers, finding himself in Aziraphale’s shop, deciding to skip the Bentley entirely. 

As soon as he’s there, his control on his corporation falters, yellow irises over taking his eyes completely, fangs and claws lengthening, he can feel scales popping up all over his body.

He physically recoils, hissing instinctively. There is something demonic in the air, tainting it. 

“Fuck, angel?!” Crowley calls, on the move instantly, he needs to find him and get him out of here. “Where are you?” 

He hears a weak gasp from the back room, and he runs back to find Aziraphale collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

“M’not sure how you’ve managed to be in here and not discorporate.” Crowley kneels down, tapping his cheek, letting out a breath he’d been holding when Aziraphale’s eyes flutter open. “There you are, I’m gonna get you out of here, alright.”

He picks up the nearly unconscious angel, not that he needs to, but he wants to, and miracles them back to his flat.

“Air’s much better here.” Crowley says, cradling the angel in his arms as they sit on his floor. “No demonic mists in the air to be found.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, eyes hazy as he still struggles to breath, even in the fresh air of Crowley’s flat. He grips the front of the demons shirt, gasping and wheezing. He’s scared, his heart racing in panic as he shakes his head. 

“It’s not helping.” Crowley says, Aziraphale's struggling to breath right in front of him. “Why isn’t it helping…” 

Crowley is hit with a sense memory at that moment, of when Warlock was little and suffered from a bout of asthma after a particularly nasty case of pneumonia. The little lad had an attack and he’d sounded just like Aziraphale does now. 

“I’ve got it, got just the thing!” Crowley exclaims, gently lowering Aziraphale to the ground. “It’s here somewhere, I know I saved it.” 

Aziraphale tries to protest, not wanting to be left alone, but it just comes out in a croak. 

When Crowley returns, having turned every drawer in his flat inside out, with an old inhaler, his angel is right where he left him, lips turning a concerning tint of blue. 

“This’ll help, angel.” Crowley says, sitting next to him, cradling his head and holding the inhaler to Aziraphale's lips. “Breath in as big as you can on three.”

Aziraphale nods weakly, and when Crowley counts down, he manages to inhale halfway before he falls into a coughing fit. 

“One more time.” Crowley says, counting down again, and when Aziraphale inhales this time he’s able to with a little less resistance. 

It takes a few minutes, but the intense pressure on Aziraphale's chest has lessened a great deal, and for the first time since his shop he feels like he can take a breath though it’s still painful. He lies on Crowley’s floor, panting.

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale says, voice quiet and rough. “That was very quick thinking.” 

“Always knew I kept this around for a reason.” Crowley says, a nervous laugh as he holds up the inhaler. “It helped tho?”

“Yes, very much.” Aziraphale says, pushing himself up to sit, pressing his hand to his chest. He takes a slow breath in, his lungs still rattle, just a little, and his exhale has a tell tale wheeze. “Though, I have to admit, it’s still a bit difficult to take a full breath.”

“I think now that you’re out of the shop, you’ll get better.” Crowley says. “There was an awful demonic mist in the air. Honestly angel, you shouldn’t have been able to be in there without discorporating.”

Aziraphale thinks on that for a moment, it certainly makes sense. 

“Well, it seems you’ve saved me yet again.” Aziraphale says, clearing his throat, winces when it feels like knives in his throat.

“What’s wrong?”

“My throat is very tender.” Aziraphale croaks, absentmindedly reaching up to touch his neck. “Breathing is actually a little painful, though I don’t believe I’d be able to use a miracle quite yet.”

“You need to rest, then after you can try to heal yourself.” Crowley says, matter of factly. He wishes he could just heal Aziraphale. “Come on, let’s put you to bed.” 

Crowley helps the angel up, leads him to his bedroom, spending a quick miracle to put him into some pajamas and gently tucks him into bed, propped up on a few pillows. 

“Hold on for just a second, I think I’ve got another thing that’ll help.” 

Aziraphale dozes for a few minutes, cozy under Crowley’s thick comforter. He watches as Crowley enters the room with an odd black cylinder. 

“This is a humidifier,” Crowley says. He sets in on the bedside table, and a soft plume of mist tumbles from the top of it. “For my plants, but the moisture might help you breathe. I have a feeling the what ever that was in your shop burned you.”

“That’s delightfully kind,” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley a sleepy smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, angel.”


End file.
